“… when the lawyer is swallowed up with business and the statesman is preventing or contriving plots, then we sit on cowslip-banks, hearthe birds sing, and posess ourselves in as much quietness as these silent silver streams…”
Late May 2017
I’m hunched down behind a big beaver dam high in the Colorado mountains. I gingerly step on the twisted mass of branches in front of me so I can peer over the dam, the preferred way to scout out a beaver pond where the trout are often very skittish. I carefully elevate my head and spot a nice foot-long brown trout finning in the slow current not 30 feet away. With an extra abundance of caution, I begin my casting motion, making sure not to snag in the overhanging willows behind me…and promptly spook the fish that heads pell mell into the next county. I can only laugh! Fortunately, I haven’t scared off all the fish and am able to seduce a couple of brightly colored little brookies that are hiding in deeper water out of the sun.
I’ve just gotten off the road after two weeks, my annual migration from Florida to my cabin in the Colorado mountains near Salida. It was time to escape the 90 degree heat and pesky, voracious salt water mosquitoes in the Everglades as well as the incessant political chatter about Biggly 45. So I am in serious need of a wilderness injection and trout remedy. The problem? The Big Ark, my home water, is running at over 1,000 CFS, which means any real wading is risk of life. And most of my favorite streams are also blown out with runoff from the peaks. Fortuitously, one of the local fishing gurus, Fred Rasmussen (founder of the local chapter of Trout Unlimited and conservation raconteur par excellence) has suggested trying Silver Creek as an option. It’s only a short drive from my cabin…so here I am and let the fun begin.